


Felis catus and Other Problems

by OssaCordis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Casual attitudes towards violence and crime, Cats, Character Study, Cute, Fluff, Gen, Possibly crack?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 15:22:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OssaCordis/pseuds/OssaCordis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jim Moriarty unintentionally acquires a cat.</p>
<p>
  <i>“If you’re still here in the morning, I’m going to pin you to the ceiling and use you for target practice.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>The cat is utterly unimpressed with this declaration. It delicately licks its left paw and gives a gentle purr of contentment.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Felis catus and Other Problems

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Moriarty and Cat](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/23588) by gingercatsneeze. 
  * Inspired by [Every good old-fashioned villain needs a cat.](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/23589) by gingercatsneeze. 



> JFC. I don't know. I just needed to get this drabble out, and then go back to working on the other fics I have in progress. 
> 
> Mildly inspired by some lovely drawings of Moriarty with a cat on gingercatsneeze's tumblr. (Go look! So adorable!)
> 
> The modern-day incarnations of Sherlock Holmes et al. belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC. The plot of this story and all original characters belong to me.

_He is quiet and small, he is black_   
_From his ears to the tip of his tail;_   
_He can creep through the tiniest crack_   
_He can walk on the narrowest rail._   
_He can pick any card from a pack,_   
_He is equally cunning with dice;_   
_He is always deceiving you into believing_   
_That he's only hunting for mice._   
_He can play any trick with a cork_   
_Or a spoon and a bit of fish-paste;_   
_If you look for a knife or a fork_   
_And you think it is merely misplaced -_   
_You have seen it one moment, and then it is gawn!_   
_But you'll find it next week lying out on the lawn._

T.S. Eliot, _Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats_ -

* * *

It starts inadvertently, as many things in life are prone to do.

Jim never stays in one place for too long. As a child, he and his mother had followed his father from one military posting to the next. And as an adult, it is better not to become _too_ familiar with any one place, at least, in his line of work. Anyhow, it is more convenient to move; he is able to keep a closer eye on his networks that way. Make sure there are no greedy hands dipping into the profits, or rogue agents spoiling his strategies, or other such mildly irritating things.

During the previous month, he had enjoyed a leisurely stay in Munich, arranging an art heist that had turned into a murder or two or five. Well, couldn’t be helped. But, he had missed London, with all its chaos and squalor and crowds of inane, easily startled people. So, after some deft manoeuvring and a bit of blackmail, a licentious MP had been relieved of his penthouse in Fitzrovia, and Jim settled in.

On his third day back in London, as he leaves the flat, he notices a black cat sitting on the front step. It stares at him, unblinking, as he shuts the front door. He ignores it and goes on with his business for the day – arranging for a man with some guns to meet another man with some drugs. Terribly boring.

When he returns late at night, the cat is still there. It might as well not have moved all day, for it is in the exact same spot and position. This inexplicably aggravates Jim. He has his key in the lock, when he changes his mind and bends over to address the cat.

“If you’re still here in the morning, I’m going to pin you to the ceiling and use you for target practice.”

The cat is utterly unimpressed with this declaration. It delicately licks its left paw and gives a gentle purr of contentment.

It’s still there in the morning. Jim nearly goes back upstairs to retrieve a handgun, but thinks better of it. There’s a kidnapping in progress, and he _really_ needs to be in Clerkenwell by 9:00 AM, and it’s rush hour. On second thought, he does retrieve the gun, and uses it to threaten a cabbie into some rather high-speed and hazardous driving. It wouldn’t do to be late.

Of course, the cat is still there when he returns. He gives a strained little giggle, and holds the door open after him. The cat follows him up the steps, down the corridor, into the lift, and then into the penthouse. Jim spends the entire evening mutely sitting across from the cat at the dining room table, where the creature has made itself home on the spotlessly polished surface. Finally, in the small hours of the morning, Jim stands up from the table, stretches, and level-headedly says, “You can stay if you don’t piss on the rug.”

Over the next several days, a variety of feline accoutrements make their way, almost unbidden, into the penthouse. A litter box, a bag of obscenely expensive limited-ingredient cat food, something _ghastly_ involving ribbons and feathers on a stick. Jim barely remembers purchasing anything. He is a man possessed.

He and the cat live in companionable silence. Rarely, Jim paces across his rooms and plots his schemes out loud, and the cat listens patiently and purrs in agreement. More often, Jim sits in his favourite armchair, watching traffic on the street below, and sketches ideas out in his head. Then, the cat languidly settles into his lap and stares up at him for hours on end. Jim has never had a cat before – or any pet, for that matter – but he suspects this is abnormal behaviour.

He tries threatening the animal with death again, but this merely leaves him annoyed when the cat fails to respond. One day, he tries to bring the cat outside, with the intention of throwing it into the street, but it spits and hisses and claws long red marks up his arms, so he abandons the attempt. It’s a frustrating problem. He doesn’t _really_ want the cat, he tells himself. Nor can he seem to be rid of it.

After a month in Fitzrovia, it’s time to leave. London has become tedious again. He could always blow something up – that would be good fun – but it’s not an advantageous time. There is a _method_ to his madness, he likes to think. Pandemonium, but always for maximum entertainment and profit. No, January would be much better for pyrotechnics, he decides.

Which leaves the Black Sea. There’s some rather interesting fights brewing between oil corporations in the area, and he would love a chance to be in the middle of that. It will be almost like a holiday, after London. Maybe a chance to visit a beach, enjoy some sun, extort money out of some local heiress. All good, clean fun for a criminal genius like himself.

He meets with his best assassin before he leaves. Some last minute business needs clearing up.

Sebastian Moran arrives fifteen minutes late at the penthouse – exasperating – with a black eye and a tear in the sleeve of his coat. Brawling again. Jim smoothes the sleeve of his freshly pressed suit and plucks a single cat hair from his tie as he and Moran settle into seats at the dining room table.

Half an hour later, the meeting concludes. “And _do_ make sure the Duchess knows I wasn’t joking when I said she owed me,” Jim concludes. “I expect full payment within the week – or her pretty little son at Eton won’t live to compete in his first University Boat Race.”

“Yes, sir,” Moran says, nodding. “Anything else, sir?”

Jim stands, quite prepared to leave at any moment. There’s a car waiting to take him to the airport. He pauses.

“There is a cat, Moran,” he says slowly, “in this flat. I need you to take care of it while I’m out of the country.”

“Does it have a name, sir?” Moran asks. He’s doing an almost admirable job of keeping his face blank, although Jim knows he will be laughing as soon as he is out of the room.

“No.”

Moran nods, seemingly unsurprised. One of his eyebrows starts to quirk up towards his hairline in amusement.

“And Moran? If anything happens to the cat while I am gone, I will personally chop you up into chum and feed you to the fish in the North Sea. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Moran gravely agrees. “Very good, sir.”

Jim nods. “Excellent. I’ll be on my way, then.”

Just as he is about to leave the penthouse, Jim spies the cat curled up on his favourite armchair. It is watching him with some unfathomable expression on its face. It almost looks… pleased. Jim shakes his head. Clearly he is insane. He shuts the door, and tries to put it out of his mind.


End file.
